Chicken Noodle Soup
by p0ck3tf0x
Summary: Canada is ill and Prussia decides to make chicken noodle soup for him. From scratch.


_**For those who are patient when I disappear; for those who I owe replies; for those who are not 'tired of waiting'. You know who you are.**_

_Summary: Canada is ill and Prussia decides to make chicken noodle soup for him. From scratch._

_Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete._

**Chicken Noodle Soup**

Prussia slouched in the worn maroon armchair and glanced up from the newspaper in front of him to the timepiece nestled between the bookshelves. His reading glasses slid down the length of his nose and perched on the tip as he watched the second hand tick with a worried frown.

It was half past nine and much too late for Canada to still be sleeping. Characteristically, the nation would rise with the sun; as their kind were known to do. It was difficult to ignore that first caress of sunlight against the land that one might characterize and represent.

As for Prussia, it was habit and nothing more that kept him in tune with the rising sun. There were no nationalists waiting for him; no land to represent anymore, and his heart would be forever restless in that absence. His indelible ties to Canada would be as close as he would get to that forgotten feeling of warmth and welcome.

The minute hand ticked forward.

Most mornings, the two of them would rise at more or less the same time. The first one to rouse would free themselves with delicate precision from the grasp of the other and creep from the bedroom to the kitchen without waking them.

Tea would be in order, and their companions would be fed breakfast amongst a chorus of joyous chirping and impatient grumbling while the tea leaves steeped.

When the other would stumble down the stairs within the hour, he would find a cup of tea, the newspaper, and someone to cuddle next to as the sunlight painted the sky.

Yet, here Prussia sat alone three hours later with a teacup of cold tea and a newspaper that had been crinkled with nervous creases.

It was well known that Canada was the calming influence to his chaotic mind. Without him, Prussia had worked himself into a lather and spent the morning searching the articles for some mention of unrest within the nation state.

He might be ill. Could it be political? Or a natural disaster?

There was none to be found, but the blonde still slept on.

It was frustrating. Prussia had not realized how much he had come to depend on their routine.

He rested his cheek in the palm of his hand and watched the minutes tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

"Argh!" He threw his head back and slouched further into the seat. His glasses slid back into place with the motion. "Son of a bitch!"

"Yes?"

Prussia bolted upright and twisted to see the nation standing at the bottom of the stairs in an oversized sweater and little else. His blonde tresses were tousled and tangled; sticking up in some places and flattened in others.

"Birdie!"

"I thought I was a 'son of a bitch'?" He coughed.

"Aha. Ha. Ha." Prussia scratched the back of his head in embarrassment at his outburst. "No. Well, you kind of are, but that's not what I meant. At all. I swear."

"It better not be," he coughed again, "or else."

"No, no, I'll be good."

"... Liar."

"... Yeah."

Prussia waited for Canada to sit beside him, but he instead continued to stand at the bottom of the stairs and stare into the distance. Upon inspection, he seemed to be shivering.

"Matthew?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you alright?"

Canada laughed and the effort caused him to lean precariously to the left. Prussia leapt from the armchair and bounded across the drawing room to his side.

"No, I do not suppose I am."

Prussia cradled the nation against his chest. From this close, it was clear that his nose was bright red and that his eyes were rimmed in the same dreadful colour. Prussia touched his burning forehead with the back of his hand and hissed.

"Shit. You have a fever."

Canada laughed again but it was cracked and unsettling this time.

"You give me fever."

"What?"

"When you kiss me," he was singing now and leaning into Prussia. His attention was still elsewhere and his expression was vacant as if he were not all there. Canada tended to hallucinate when feverish, on the handful of occasions that Prussia had seen, but the singing was new and interesting.

"Matthew?"

"Fever when you hold me tight."

It was obvious that he was delirious, but Prussia loosened his hold on Canada just in case.

"Fever!" He raised his hands over his head and snapped his fingers.

"Ah!"

"In the morning; fever all through the night." At the last note, he slumped forward in unconscious abandon. Prussia stepped forward with him to keep him from falling.

"... What the hell?" Prussia wondered aloud as he scooped up the blonde and ascended the stairs.

* * *

><p>Canada felt horrible.<p>

It was difficult to breath and his thoughts were slower than molasses. His stomach felt hollow and his mouth felt as if it had been packed with cotton.

He moaned and buried his head in the pillow; he felt weak and pathetic and useless.

"Birdie?"

Canada blinked. Prussia was kneeling on the floor next to him and holding his hand with a slight frown. He was still wearing his reading glasses, which was a bit odd, but charming nonetheless. Canada was in their bedroom and tucked beneath the covers.

"Gilbert," he rasped, wincing at the sound, and shifted on to his back. "What happened?"

Prussia passed him a glass of water and two diminutive blue tablets. Canada tossed the tablets to the back of his throat with a flick of his wrist and sipped the water before handing the glass back and collapsing into the pillows again.

"Well, at first you were just a little rough around the edges, but then you started singing and passed out. That is the extent of my knowledge."

Canada moaned for a second time; drawing the blanket over his head in shame and hiding in the quiet darkness.

"It was cute, but I think you have a fever."

He peeked at Prussia over the seam of the blanket with a flush that had little to do with the sickness. He felt as if he were spinning in place.

"You-"

"Not again!"

"... What?"

"Oh. I thought you were... That's how it started last time. The singing."

Canada hid beneath the blanket again with a sighing breath and wished the spinning would cease. He felt nauseous.

"That's so embarrassing!"

"No, it's cute. You know what was embarrassing? Last Christmas, when Latvia was allowed to be the bartender and everyone was smashed, and you walked right up to Sweden and-"

"Ah! You told me that you had forgotten that night!"

"Sweetheart, I was wasted, but no one is going to forget that anytime soon. It was epic."

Canada resigned himself to the flushed cheeks and let the blanket fall back into his lap.

"Stop teasing me. I feel awful."

"I know." He pressed a light kiss to his forehead and smoothed his mussed hair. He tucked him in with absentminded habit. "Go to sleep, and I'll bring you something nice, okay?"

Canada cocked an eyebrow.

"That sounds suggestive. Are you coming on to me?"

"Not right this moment," Prussia winked as he pushed off towards the corridor. He closed the door with a soft 'click' and a whispered warning against the monster in the closet.

Canada watched him leave before snuggling further into the folds of the linens and closing his eyes against the spinning and his hollow stomach.

* * *

><p>Prussia plucked through the cupboards in search of 'something nice' but there was not much to be found. This afternoon, if routine had allowed, would have involved a trip to the market but as it was, there was not a lot in the cupboards. Their companions sat on the kitchen tiles and underfoot with unwavering fascination.<p>

"Cheep!"

"No. Yes. No. I don't know!"

"Cheep! Cheep!"

"He's sick."

"Who?"

"Goddamnit, Kumajirou. Ca. Na. Da. Matthew."

"... Who?"

"I've always wanted a bearskin rug, and I am honestly _this _close to getting one, so watch your manners!"

The miniature polar bear snorted and turned his head in disdain, but the chick continued to flutter about the white fur and it sort of ruined the effect.

"Cheep!"

"I'm not sure. He has a fever."

"Fever, in the morning; fever all through the night," Kumajirou began to hum under his breath in lilting monotone.

"Seriously? You too?"

"Cheep! Cheep!"

"Well, that depends. Is it 'starve a fever and feed a cold', or 'feed a fever and starve a cold'?"

"Cheep!"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Cheep!"

"How is that helpful, Gilbird?" Prussia groaned and knocked his head against the counter in frustration.

"Fever isn't such a new thing; fever started long ago."

"And that is definitely not helping!"

"Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!"

"That might work... Are you sure? It's a touch corrupt on your part."

"Cheep!"

"True."

"He gives me fever, with his kisses; fever when he holds me tight."

Prussia grabbed a large knife from the drawer and headed for the backyard. He paused to glare at the polar bear and point the weapon at him as if to prove a point.

"I'm watching you," he motioned between his eyes and the pet. "For someone who claims to never remember his name... You seem to be listening to the same soundtrack."

The door slammed shut behind him and left the companions inside.

"Chicks were born to give you fever; be it farhenheit or centigrade."

The chick stopped fluttering long enough to cock his head to the side in confusion, but the polar bear shrugged his shoulders and finished singing without explanation before collapsing onto the tiles to cool his undercarriage. The chick pecked at him a couple of times to get his attention, but when he was ignored, he instead perched near one of his soft white ears and folded himself under his own wing; for all intents and purposes dropping the subject.

* * *

><p>"Knock, knock," Prussia crooned, but he opened the door without waiting for an answer. He held a wooden serving platter in one hand while the other clutched a beer. Canada smiled and propped himself up against the headboard.<p>

"Voila," he said with a flourish as he set the platter down in front of him. "Chicken noodle soup. The beer is for me."

Canada peered into the bowl and was surprised to find thick noodles and slices of chicken in a warm, spotted broth. He must have made it from scratch.

"Oh, this is such a sweet gesture and..." He glanced from the soup to Prussia lounging on the edge of the mattress. "Why are you covered in feathers?"

"No reason."

"Gilbert."

"... Your soup fought back."

"My soup? Oh. Oh! Gilbert!"

Canada reached for more medicine and knocked it back as if it could help with this as well.

"Hey! Gilbird put me up to it!"

"Oh dear," Canada massaged his temples. "The henhouse down the lane? Our neighbours'?"

"... Maybe."

"How could Gilbird ask you to do something so... So... He's a bird too!"

"First of all, he's _my_ bird, so he's bound to be a bit depraved. Second, that was not a nice chicken. Not at all. He had it coming."

Canada did not know whether to laugh or weep as Prussia batted his eyelashes in mock innocence. He was covered from head to toe in russet feathers and the odd splash of dried blood, but there were scratches up his forearms and his fingers were nicked and burnt from his attempt at cooking.

And it did look delicious.

Canada sighed and picked up the spoon. The broth was warm and soothing as it slid down his raw throat. The noodles were soft and sweet without being overpowering, and Canada knew that Prussia would have had to ring Northern Italy for the recipe. The chicken, despite its interesting origins, was tender and firm.

Prussia watched him eat and when he was sure that he would not be immediately reprimanded, he slid underneath the covers next to Canada and wrapped his arms around his waist. Canada leaned back into him and finished the soup as Prussia entertained him with tales of a singing bear, the great chicken chase, and how he lost his reading glasses in the process.

"Gilbert?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this. Despite your methods, it was very thoughtful of you."

"Anything for you."

"I rather wish that you would draw the line at theft and murder."

"Never."

Canada snuggled into the crook of his shoulder and the protection it offered. He still felt awful, but the medication was kicking in and his stomach was warm, satisfied, and no longer aching. Prussia smoothed his hair and hummed tickling melodies against the shell of his ear. He dandled his fingers and wound their hands together. The window latch was open and the curtains flickered in the light wind that carried the laughter of neighbourhood children on summer vacation.

"You know, in the morning, we're going to have to visit our neighbours and apologize for this."

"In the morning, when you're feeling better, we will."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

'_Ooh, what a lovely way to burn...'_

_This could be seen in the same universe as 'Plastic Minions' and 'Housewarming'. I think 'Lulla(bye)' and 'Maple Sugar' might also be in this universe. What do you think?  
><em>

_This is not at all serious, and I apologize for that; it's just a bit of fun. Sweet and absurd, but the two of them together are just that in my mind. Without a doubt, when Prussia sets out to make chicken noodle soup from scratch, he means 'from scratch'. He _would _argue with their companions and his reading glasses would have a chain of bright pink beads... I wonder what happened to them?_

_A chicken is not a nice creature, and if you have never spent time on a farm, you cannot fathom the extent to which I refer. If you have, then you know of what I speak. You know._

_It seems that Canada rambles and roams when he is ill. He also breaks into song. I had not meant for him to do that, but he sort of went off on his own (again) and it fit, so I did not bother to pull back on the lead. I tend to sing when I am delusional, but that is most of the time, so... Yeah. Kumajirou is Kumajirou. I do not have a lead for him at all. It was interesting to include the companions for the first time. The song is 'Fever' and has been covered by many artists over the years but was originally recorded by Little Willie John in 1956. It is a classic, and if you are unfamiliar with it, I would first recommend the cover by Peggy Lee, which was the first cover and the one on which most subsequent versions were based upon because of the extended lyrics (which are now the standard). _

_I am still writing, but I am working on several projects at once. By several, I mean eight or nine... I am rewriting 'Tired of Waiting' but I think I have an idea on where I want to go with that, which is a relief. The second point of view for 'I Only Smoke When I'm With You' is almost done and I only need to find the time to finish it. I am also working on yet to be posted 'Sans Parapluie', 'Hack and Slash', and 'One Last Request'. Besides that, I am still adjusting in the absence of my father and I have younger siblings to watch over; a family to knit back together after his death. I have two occupations and will sometimes be working for fourteen or fifteen hours. This is not an excuse, but the truth of my circumstances. But! I am still writing and I miss you all, so I decided to post a piece. I owe some of you replies and messages and I promise that I will find the time! It just might take a little while..._

_On a more cheerful note, I bought a tortoise. His name is Nigel and he is awesome!_

_Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. Feel free to leave an anonymous review, I do not mind, just please let me know what you think of this story._


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